


shine a light

by ceramize



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Exes, Filmmaking, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Secret Relationship, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-07 18:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8811232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceramize/pseuds/ceramize
Summary: love in the time of cinema.Or: how Hollywood actors Hanzo Shimada and Jesse McCree come together, come apart, and come together again.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plikaia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plikaia/gifts).



> disclaimer: i took one (1) semester of video production freshman year. this is all a world of my pretending but if anything is unbearably wrong (or just in general) pls let me know!!
> 
> happy birthday/christmas/new year babe!! oh goodness

Hanzo wakes up cold, to a gray sky and a city just starting to come alive like clockwork. He stares resentfully at the drywall ceiling for a long moment, cursing his wrecked circadian rhythm, before sighing and levering himself out of bed.

He’s washing his face when he hears the sound of his front door being unlocked. He perks up instantly - his agent’s here, and even though she’s uncharacteristically early, it’s always good to see Hana. The tension in his shoulders lets itself out in slow increments as he dresses and leaves his bedroom to greet her.

“Good morning!” Hana says, energetic as usual, but unlike her typical good spirits, today she seems tightly wound, buzzing with something anxious, an anticipation like static electricity.

She’s sitting ramrod straight, laptop on her knees and two phones in her hands. Her clothes are more professional than usual but also somehow disheveled, like she’d gotten here from a meeting  _fast_. Hanzo hazards a glance at the microwave clock. It’s barely 8. He has some concerns.

“Good morning,” Hanzo says, brow raised. Hana nods briskly in his direction, and when it becomes clear that she isn’t going to explain anything to him, he lets her be and turns into the kitchen.

His refrigerator, Hanzo notes morosely, will need restocking soon. At this point it’s mostly the things that Hana buys for herself and doesn’t finish, so he settles for an unnaturally colored tube of yogurt and calls it a day.

“I have good news!” Hana bursts at last, tight and strained, and Hanzo turns to actually look at her setup.

An array of manila folders and plastic files are arranged haphazardly across the coffee table. Atop them sits a paper cup from Hanzo’s favorite café, and he’s fairly confident that it contains a soy latte macchiato, the kind she only gets to bribe him with.

This is not good news.

Hana pats the seat next to her on the couch, and hands Hanzo a file with a thick screenplay once he sits. He skims through several pages, stops short, and flips back to the beginning to read it in detail. It’s good, if unconventional - a magical realist political thriller, with a dynamic ensemble of characters.

“What’s this for?”

“It’s Fareeha Amari’s next project,” Hana says. Hanzo starts to nod, then pauses. He likes Amari - her debut won the Grand Prix two years before, leaving the whole industry on the watch for her next move. Her mother Ana had been a classic international star, much like Hanzo’s father. Like Hanzo, Amari’s inherited a lot of pressure to make it big in America - but she’s doing so as a director, not an actor, a liberty of choice Hanzo didn’t have.

“Does she want me to audition?” Hanzo asks.

“She’s not doing auditions,” Hana says with a grin. “She already knows exactly who she’s casting, and she wants you as a secondary lead.”

“And - ”

“I already told her producer you were doing it, because, well - ”

“I can’t turn this down,” Hanzo says, eyes wide. A coveted role like this is what he’s been needing since he started his career.

“Exactly,” Hana says.

“So what’s the bad news, then?” Hanzo asks.

“What bad news?” Hana asks. She’s still smiling, but now she’s more like a deer in the headlights.

Hanzo gives her a  _look_. Hana visibly deflates, and takes a breath.

“Fareeha’s producer’s still negotiating with the cast and not everyone’s in yet,” she says carefully, “but as of now, the people who’ve signed on are Satya Vaswani, Lúcio, Angela Ziegler…”

“I don’t see what this has to do with - ”

“ - and Jesse McCree.”

Hanzo freezes. He can’t move, can’t breathe - of everything he could’ve dealt with, has dealt with, was preparing to deal with - his thoughts dissolve into nothing but the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

He’s 26 again, young, dumb, and in love. So helplessly in love.

“Hanzo?”    

Hanzo starts and blinks back into awareness. Hana’s waving her hand in front of his eyes, wearing an uncertain, kicked-puppy expression.

“I’ll do it. It’s okay,” Hanzo says, finally, and it’s a relief to see her calm down again. “... Thank you for finding me this opportunity.”

“You better thank me,” Hana says, with a startled laugh. “Who knows where you’d be without me?” Then, more quietly: “That’s the spirit.”

The hand she puts on his arm is sympathetic, encouraging, but her eyes are solemn.

* * *

Sojiro Shimada’s last words to Hanzo before his eldest son left Japan were: “If you make one mistake, you will have nowhere to turn to.”

As much as he didn’t want to admit it, there was reason in them - when Hanzo was always typecast, always the assassin or the scientist, he could never truly be secure enough to take risks, whether in the roles he took or his public image. He’s navigated Hollywood since then with that mindset, playing it safe, and to his credit, no trouble has come up because of it (save for once). Whether he does this out of a dull acceptance of reality or some deep-set, unshakeable optimism that things would change, Hanzo still doesn’t know.

It was also true that returning to Japan will simply never be an option for him, not if he doesn’t plan to leave his career behind as he goes. The networks there, he knows, are still fond of  periodic reports on what had happened with him and Genji, way back when, never mind that they're both back on their feet. Where Hanzo had fled the TV drama world and never looked back, though, Genji had reclaimed it with even more zeal and impertinence than before.

His latest series is an international one, a big-budget tokusatsu deconstruction with a crew, Genji says, to die for.

“You wouldn’t  _believe_ what Zen did when he saw the sound stage this morning,” Genji laughs, tinny through the phone. “The look on his face! If I didn't know him I probably would've thought I was going to die right then.” Hanzo hums noncommittally and the two share a moment of comfortable silence. “But that’s not what you’re calling for.”

“It is,” Hanzo insists.

“Is it really?” Hanzo can see Genji smirking, catlike and unapologetic, and sighs heavily.

“I’ve been cast in something,” Hanzo says. “It’s - it might be big.”

“I’ll let Father know,” Genji says, with all the dramatic affectations of the long-suffering. “I should’ve known better than to think you just wanted to hear about my day. That’s cold of you, brother. Very cold.”

“ _Genji_ ,” Hanzo reprimands, but he’s smiling.

“I know, I know,” Genji says, “my duty as your underling and everything -  _shit_ , lunch ends in 5.”

“Don’t keep them waiting,” Hanzo says, “my advice to you as your superior and everything.”

Genji barks out a surprised laugh. “But really, anija, you’re going to blow them out of the water.”

“If you’re trying to convince me to get you into another of your weird Syfy premieres, it’s not going to work,” Hanzo says.

“I can find my own way into those,” Genji says airily, then quickly sobers. “You know I don’t say things I don’t mean, when it - ”

“I do,” Hanzo says, warmer than he expects. “And you as well,” he adds quietly, and waits for Genji to hang up.

* * *

The first table read is slated for a drizzly Tuesday afternoon. Hana drops Hanzo off at the studio in her eggplant-colored coupe, a graduation present from her parents that’s running on fumes and that she complains endlessly about, yet still refuses to replace.

“Text me if anything comes up, okay?” Hana calls through the passenger window. “Say a name and I’ll come right back to fight them.”

“Thank you, Hana,” Hanzo says dryly once he’s safe under the awning. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He watches fondly as her car screeches away, running a stop sign before turning out of sight.

The studio is familiar to him from auditions and interviews past - enough so that his mind starts wandering as he climbs the stairs to the second floor and heads for the boardroom at the end of the hall. It’s been nearly two years since he last spoke to Jesse. He’s seen him in passing since then, of course - in their line of work, Hollywood really isn’t as big as it seems - and every time it’s been like looking into the sun, except he has to force himself to look away.

But now - he’ll have to work with him. They haven’t ever been in a production together, not even  _then_ , and after everything it’s now that they need to act like professionals, like they’ve never met. There was never anything professional about them. Maybe  _this_ will be Hanzo’s one mistake.

Just before he reaches the door, he almost walks right into someone. He blinks dazedly for a moment at a shock of tousled brown hair, which promptly turns around to look at him with wide eyes.

“Hanzo?”

“Lena?”

“Hanzo! It’s really you!” she says, and Hanzo finds himself with a sudden armful of Lena Oxton. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”

Hanzo’s known Lena for essentially his entire Hollywood career. They’d been in the same student film nearly ten years ago, and just kept running into each other until he gradually learned that she’s keen and lively and wiser than her years, and should probably never meet Hana or they’d be completely insufferable together.

Hanzo can’t help but smile as he sets her down. “I didn’t know you were in the cast.”

“Yeah, funny thing!” Lena says, grabbing his arm to lead him into the boardroom. “I just found out, one - two days ago? I literally got called the minute I got back from London.”

“I’m glad - ” he trails off helplessly as they enter the room. The cast and crew are milling around, greeting one another over firm handshakes and dog-eared scripts, but everything seems to fade away when Hanzo hones in on Jesse, who’s standing by the window, deep in conversation. He’s almost close enough to touch, so beautiful Hanzo’s chest aches with something still raw, but that’s nothing new.

“Hanzo? Glad what?” Lena asks.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, “my father greatly admires, ah, Gabriel Reyes.” He gestures at Reyes himself, to whom Jesse is currently speaking. It’s not a lie. He resolutely ignores the way Jesse -  _McCree_ now, he has to remind himself - wrenches around when he hears Hanzo’s voice, gazes fixedly downward as McCree stares at him like he’s drowning. “I’m glad we can work together again.”

“Oh! Me too,” Lena says, clearly unmollified by Hanzo’s explanation, but she doesn’t press any further.

“How’s Emily?” Hanzo asks, after a moment.

Lena’s eyes light up just as Fareeha Amari rises from her seat at the end of the table, and the room goes quiet.

“Thank you all for joining us today,” she says, voice commanding and resonant. “If everyone would please take a seat, we can get started with introductions and the reading.”

“I’ll tell you later,” Lena whispers, as Hanzo leads them to the nearest empty chairs.

The only crew present for the first read, aside from Amari, are her producer and DP. The producer, Morrison, gives off a gruff but long-suffering air. Strangely enough, Hanzo’s never heard of him before, although there’s something oddly familiar about him at the same time. He’s worked in several productions with Mei-Ling Zhou, though, and knows that the DP has a brilliant technical eye as well as the kind of heart that holds a production together.

The cast goes around, making their requisite introductions, though Amari’s assembled such an all-star group that each one seems largely redundant - Satya Vaswani, who’d caught a top casting director’s attention in a college play and has since risen through the ranks, destined to win an Oscar any year now. Angela Ziegler, standard fixture of awards-season dramas and big-budget fantasy series alike. Lúcio, master of all trades, a Brazilian EMT who’d gone viral for his social activism and music and was now venturing into film. Reinhardt Wilhelm, best known in past decades for bodybuilding, Shakespeare, and soap operas. Gabriel Reyes, classic western star who seemingly disappeared in the 80s only to return at the turn of the century with a vengeance, as a revered dramatic actor. Amélie Lacroix, Amari’s fellow Cannes darling and star of her debut feature.

McCree, who’d made a smooth and nigh-impossible transition from sitcoms to action adventures to, now, more serious and experimental projects. He introduces himself with the same cadences, rich tones, and half-jokes Hanzo remembers, and it’s so normal, so unchanged from before, Hanzo wonders how he does it.

They get to work.

* * *

Hanzo finds Jesse on the balcony, holding a cigarillo between two fingers as he watches the city below. Above the smog, the sky is pale orange streaked with red, and Jesse is radiant in its soft light. Not for the first time, Hanzo’s in awe that he’s the one who gets to see this side of him - heart in his throat, beating faster. He slides the glass door open and steps without hesitance into the morning chill. Pressing his face into the warm expanse of his back, Hanzo wraps his arms around Jesse from behind, reveling in the way his boyfriend relaxes into the embrace.

“‘Morning, darlin',” Jesse rumbles. “Sleep well?”

Hanzo hums in assent, and rises up on his toes to hook his chin over Jesse’s shoulder. Chuckling, Jesse presses a scratchy kiss to Hanzo’s forehead and half-turns so he can put an arm around him. Hanzo leans in readily, and they melt into each other, quiet, swaying slightly to a song only the two of them can hear.

* * *

“Okay, cut, stop there,” Amari says for the eighth time this scene. Satya sits down on the desk, arms crossed impassively. Lúcio is swaying slightly on his feet. Amélie looks ready to mutiny.

It’s the second week, and everyone had been making good headway until today -

“I’m real sorry, Fareeha,” McCree says, scratching the back of his head wearily. “I don’t know what’s come over me today.”

\- the first scene Hanzo and McCree have together. It’s unfair to everyone else, Hanzo knows, but there isn’t much they can do when everything that happens between the two of them comes out entirely lifeless.

“McCree, your dialogue with everyone else has been fine,” Amari says. “There’s just something here that isn’t genuine enough - you’re talking  _at_ Shimada, not  _to_ him. And the same goes for you, Shimada.”

Hanzo nods. Amari looks between the two of them for a moment, then pinches the bridge of her nose with a sigh.

“Okay, everyone take fifteen. We’re moving on to scene twelve when we get back,” Amari says. “McCree and Shimada, stay for a minute.”

The rest of the cast disperses. Amari confers for a moment with Mei and Morrison by the camera, leaving Hanzo and McCree standing side by side, neither willing to make the first move.

“We can push back this scene until Friday,” Amari says when she returns, “but when we get back to it it needs to work, alright?”

“Of course,” Hanzo says. “Thank you.”

“You got it,” McCree says. “We’ll make it happen.”

Amari waves them off, satisfied with their response. Hanzo hazards a glance toward McCree, only to find him already halfway across the set. He retreats to his trailer without another thought.

11/8 17:28:06

Hana?

_11/8 17:28:59_

_IS IT MCCREE_ (ง'̀-'́)ง

11/8 17:29:12

No!

11/8 17:29:16

Well, yes, but not like that.

_11/8 17:29:20_

_go on,_  

11/8 17:29:37

We tried to shoot our first scene together.

11/8 17:29:45

‘Tried’ being the operative word.

11/8 17:29:58

It went so badly it had to be rescheduled.

_11/8 17:30:09_

(つд｀)(つд｀)(つд｀) 

_11/8 17:30:15_

_pls tell me there was no property damage involved_

11/8 17:30:21

Hana.

_11/8 17:30:26_

_ok!! just checking_  

_11/8 17:30:30_

_wellllllllll_  

_11/8 17:30:37_

_remember when you just hired me and i still had that thing going on w my parents_  

_11/8 17:30:44_

_and you told me theres some things abt ppl i cant change_  

_11/8 17:30:52_

_but if i valued my relationship w them then i should try to understand what they feel_

_11/8 17:30:59_

_i thought that was wise_

11/8 17:31:05

Thank you? 

_11/8 17:31:12_

_BUT U DIDNT LISTEN TO URSELF!!_  

_11/8 17:31:18_

_IT WOULDVE HELPED U WITH GENJI THEN_  

_11/8 17:31:24_

_I MEAN IT DID EVENTUALLY BUT IT TOOK SO LONG_  

_11/8 17:31:30_

_AND ITLL HELP U NOW IF YOU JUST TRIED_

11/8 17:32:01

I

11/8 17:32:09

** I will do my best.

11/8 17:32:12

Thank you. 

11/8 17:32:37

<コ:彡

_11/8 17:32:42_

٩(˃̶͈̀௰˂̶͈́)و

* * *

Aching in the best way, Hanzo tucks his face into Jesse’s bare chest with a breathy laugh. He traces light patterns over Jesse’s skin as Jesse rubs soothing circles into his back, both of them trying - if not really wanting - to come down from their respective highs.

It’s been over a month, but Hanzo still finds it hard to truly comprehend that they’ve fallen together so easily, still takes each day as it comes as a perfect surprise.

“Babe,” Jesse says, voice wonderfully rough, “I can hear you thinkin’ from up here.”

Hanzo presses a kiss to his collarbone. He wants to assure him that it’s nothing, but - it isn’t, and they’re going to have to discuss it at some point. “If we’re - doing this,” he says, when he finally summons the courage to use his voice, “I don’t think we could be open about it. Not right now. I’m sorry, it isn’t that I don’t want to, I just - ”

“Hey.” Jesse shuts him up with a finger on his lips, and tips Hanzo’s head up to look him in the eye. “Hanzo, hey, don’t apologize for that. And don’t you doubt for a second that I want this, darlin’, because I’ve never wanted anything more.” The hand on Hanzo’s back guides him to lay on his front, while the other cups his cheek and pulls him into a deep, searching kiss. “‘Sides,” Jesse adds when they pull back for air, “I don’t see what’ll be so bad about TMZ not bein’ all up in our business for the rest of our lives.”

And Hanzo, full to bursting with warmth and unexpected giddiness, surges forward to kiss him again without hesitation. “Fuck TMZ,” he giggles into Jesse’s mouth, as Jesse gazes up at him with nothing but adoration in his eyes.

* * *

The week passes in a blur. In the meantime, Hanzo learns that Satya is all but perfect, Lúcio is almost overbearingly - but still welcomely - sweet, and Amélie becomes an entirely different person in her character.

He still can't bring himself to talk to McCree, like Hana keeps insisting he should. Even if he could, though, he doubts he'll find the opportunity to do so - McCree’s always just out of reach, on the other side of the set, joking with their castmates or stealing away to his trailer whenever he has the time.

Hanzo does, however, step in on Wednesday to watch him perform. It’s his scene with Lena and Angela, and he throws himself wholly into his role as Angela’s foil with just the right balance of confidence and charisma, without becoming overpowering. McCree’s acting has always been deeply moving to Hanzo, even before they’d met - he has a way of grounding himself to what’s most at stake for his characters, regardless of how complex (or uncomplex) they’re written, so that all his words and actions have purpose.

“And scene,” Amari says. Back to his senses, Hanzo slips offset before McCree can see that he’d been there.

Friday is - to put it lightly - tense. Even the others seem to sense it, pushing back all the shots where Hanzo and McCree interact’s characters have to interact for as long as they can manage.

 _You got this_ , Lúcio mouths as Hanzo assumes his position beside the desk. He smiles back gratefully and sees McCree falter for a moment and quickly straighten in his peripheral vision.

“You had four days to work this out,” Amari tells them, more encouragingly than it should’ve sounded. “Don’t blow this.” She signals to Mei.

“Camera set,” Mei says.

“Action,” Amari says.

It’s McCree’s line. He falters for a moment, starting and stopping more than once without making a sound. Mei looks questioningly at Amari, and Amari shakes her head, watching McCree intently. There is a long, meaningful, terrifying pause before Jesse’s entire posture shifts, giving into a perfectly natural line. Just like that, it’s like a switch flipped, and the two of them play to each other like they used to.

They’d never acted together in a professional setting before - save for a few sessions of Shakespeare in the Park McCree had talked Hanzo into when they first got together - but this feels so charged, so _right_ , it makes Hanzo’s eyes sting.

“Cut,” Amari says, half-smiling. Mei whoops quietly behind her, and Satya and Amélie seem to sag in relief. “I knew you two could get it together.” They reshoot the scene several times for different angles, each time more smoothly than the last, but when they wrap up for the day, McCree just nods curtly at him before they head their separate ways.

* * *

It’s a bad idea before it even happens, and Hanzo knows it. It’s past midnight after a day of pointless screen tests that left him exhausted and on edge, and now he’s staring helplessly at the tipping point, innocuous on his laptop, just as the key turns in the door.

“Darlin’, I’m home,” Jesse calls. The fatigue in his voice is so thick Hanzo can feel it himself - he knows if he turns around, he’ll see the tired slope of his shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes. “Han?”

Hanzo waits, pointed, until he feels the backrest of the couch sag with the weight of Jesse leaning on it, looking over his shoulder, to show him the article - _Jesse McCree to star in latest post-apocalyptic action comedy from Fawkes/Rutledge_. “Jesse, what is this?”

“I thought it’d be fun,” Jesse says easily. “Last project drove me up the wall with that Oscar bait bull - I needed a break and he asked nicely, so why not?”

“ _So why not_? Jesse, this is your career,” Hanzo says. “You’ve come so far. Taking a - a _Junker role_ could set you back to when you were being typecast as every other one-dimensional action hero there is!”

“So you’re sayin’ that you know what’s best for me?”

“You made the decision to take your career this way,” Hanzo says shortly. “Forgive me for trying to help you follow through with it.”

“Maybe what you should be tryin’ to do is to know what’s best for _you_ ,” Jesse says. At Hanzo’s puzzled, affronted look, he adds, “When you finally have a casting history you can ruin too, _then_ come talk to me ‘bout mine.”

Hanzo’s felt his heart racing since he first saw the headline, but now his pulse is roaring in his ears as well. It drowns out everything but his resolve - he’s livid now for Jesse’s own good (not for the way his chest twinges when he realizes what Jesse’s saying) - and he’ll see that through until the end. “People were just starting to see you for the talent you have,” he says, finally turning to face him, “but if you do this they’ll never think you’re good for anything but these shitty B movies. Unless that was the case all along.”

They gaze at each other for a long moment, stricken, until Hanzo ducks his head and makes a guilty retreat to the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

It takes two hours of fitful tossing and turning for Hanzo to break. It’s a cold night, and he can only imagine how much worse it must be for Jesse on the couch. Gathering the comforters into his arms, he clambers off the bed and pads quietly into the living room. Jesse lies sprawled across the length of the couch, his feet hanging off one armrest but his arms wrapped closely around himself, under the thin, horribly patterned afghan he’d insisted on keeping for movie nights.

Hanzo tears his eyes away from Jesse’s peaceful face just long enough to gently tuck both comforters over his legs and up to his shoulders. When he stands up to leave, though, a hand slips around his wrist and pulls him back down.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” Jesse says, eyes still closed.

“Jess - ” _I’m sorry_ , he wants to say. _I couldn’t stop myself from looking for a fight and you didn’t deserve that._

Jesse sits up, then, carefully cups Hanzo’s face with one hand and tips their foreheads together, looking into his eyes, deep and desperate. “I didn’t mean any of what I said,” Jesse says. “Please tell me you got that.”

“I know,” Hanzo says around the lump in his throat. “Neither did I.”

When Jesse kisses him, it’s like a sigh of relief. Drawing his legs back, Jesse pulls Hanzo in to sit with him, and Hanzo goes gratefully, wrapping himself around Jesse’s sleep-warm body.

“I’m sorry we can’t be out,” Hanzo says, tucking his face into Jesse’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t have to put up with that - with any of this - for me.”

“Bullshit,” Jesse says, kissing the top of his head and staying there, breathing deep. “I’ve told you this before and I’ll tell you as many times as you keep makin’ me - I’m not goin’ anywhere. It ain’t putting up with things if it means I can be with you.”

“I love you,” Hanzo has to say, then. He can’t quite let go of the worry and regret, still, but for now it’s enough to nestle closer and let himself be held in return.

Sleep doesn’t return to either of them that night.

* * *

_11/20 14:17:22_

_Hi Hanzo!! Me and Lúcio were thinking we should do a Cast Bonding Night at that bar/grill across from the studio tonight, you in???_

11/20 14:19:46

Is it really a good idea to go out drinking on a Sunday night?

11/20 14:19:55

I’m honestly still not sure what Amari would do if anyone pissed her off.

11/20 14:20:03

_Tbhh i’d be ok with her stepping on me i mean_

11/20 14:20:09

.. Lena

_11/20 14:20:11_

_LI STE N_

_11/20 14:20:18_

_Anyway are you in !!?_

11/20 14:20:24

We already have cast bonding for about 50 hours a week.

_11/20 14:20:31_

_Hanzooooo :(_

_11/20 14:20:41_

_[youmadethekidssad.jpg]_

11/20 14:20:58

. You two need to stop using that against me.

_11/20 14:21:05_

_So is that a yes ;;)_

11/20 14:21:10

[IMEANIGUESS.png]

_11/20 14:21:15_

_OMFG_

_11/20 14:21:21_

_LÚCIO SAYS YOURE A TRENDY DAD NOW_

11/20 14:21:26

You know what, maybe that was actually a no

_11/20 14:21:32_

_SRY TRENDY DAD SEE YOU TONIGHT X_

The grill is much nicer than Hanzo had expected - the smell of smoke hanging lightly in the air, the wall art and signed photos arranged in a careful, restrained method to be tasteful rather than gaudy, the exposed brick running along the walls like veins of ore in bedrock. There is also the warm golden lighting, the heavy wood furniture, the muted atmosphere, like the eye of a storm, that reminds Hanzo of another night, heady with loose secrets, the feeling of looking over a precipice before a long-coveted fall, a thigh pressed warm against his.

But McCree is two seats away from him now rather than close enough that every shift of their bodies could be a tentative caress, and shuttered and burnt rather than prepared to open every part of himself to a near-stranger who only needed to ask. The man is still here but the connection is gone, and somehow that makes the ache worse than any other possibility they could’ve ended up with.

It might not be the best night to be feeling maudlin, but here he is.

To even Lena and Lúcio’s surprise, the entire main cast was able to make it, packed together around a few tables pushed haphazardly together in a more secluded corner. It’s late enough that most of them aren’t ordering food, although evidently, no one fears Amari’s wrath enough to not have drinks in hand. Hanzo, who’s never been much for American liquor, picks thoughtfully at the basket of chips at the center of the table, drifting in and out of the conversation as it ebbs and flows.

“Hanzo,” Reyes, on the other side of the table, turns to him. He’d been speaking quietly to McCree - and that’s something Hanzo still isn’t over, _Gabriel Reyes_ , despite how many times McCree had offered for them to meet up with his mentor back in the day. “You two work well together.”

Hanzo straightens and tries for diplomacy: “I’m glad we can. And it’s a great honor to work with you both.”

“I hope you’ll still be saying the same when we actually shoot together,” Reyes says, self-deprecating and slightly menacing all at once. Then the corners of his eyes crinkle warmly, and Hanzo realizes he’s been let in, perhaps, on some sort of understanding.

The silence, when it comes over the three of them, is less uncomfortable than Hanzo would’ve imagined.

“Hanzo,” McCree offers after a moment, voice wavering before he catches himself. “You were - you were in that webseries a couple months ago, with Sombra, right? How was that?”

They lapse into small talk, casual and low in contrast to the boisterous, Reinhardt-led discussion at the other end of the table. It’s almost easy, filling Hanzo with longing and a restless sort of hope - like nothing’s changed, but so much has.

* * *

Before he’d moved to America, Hanzo had never been out of his element at a reception - he’d practically grown up going to them. But at a quiet awards show at the Gibraltar Theatre, by his latest director’s invitation, he can't help but hang at the fringe of the crowd - despite knowing it's a valuable opportunity to make connections, especially given his newcomer status - uncertain as to his belonging there.

Faint chamber music floats above the hall, over the guests standing arranged in circles, proud and unnavigable. The sound of glasses clinking and veiled conversation is somehow both familiar and alien.

He’s pulled from his daze by a short man in a velvet suit brushing past him briskly, and from there everything seems to happen at once: the two of them stumbling backward, the man’s foot catching on the long tablecloth of a champagne table, the table arrangement falling, the man, undeterred, disappearing into the crowd -

\- Hanzo, diving forward, catching the tiny salmon canapés on their tray, and looking up at the most beautiful person he’s ever seen in his life, similarly disheveled from rescuing an ornamental vase.

“Pretty handy with that tray,” the stranger offers after a long moment of mutual, dumbfounded staring. He tips his honest-to-god cowboy hat, and a smile, unbidden, makes its way onto Hanzo’s face.

* * *

It gets easier to talk to McCree again after that - they fall quickly into what Hanzo doesn’t quite dare call a friendship, just yet, but it’s close. Against his best judgment, he volunteers to go collect McCree from his trailer one morning when he’s half an hour late to the set, but when Hanzo knocks tentatively on the metal door and slowly pushes it open, he isn’t there.

He sits heavily on one of the bar stools - shooting can’t start today without McCree, so he may as well wait until he arrives - and reaches out to flick on the lights. The trailer, though a temporary arrangement, is already very _McCree_ : multiple well-worn, annotated copies of the script, stacked precariously on every surface or pinned to the walls, an ashtray and a pile of magazine trash boxes on the vanity table, a familiar, terribly ugly afghan thrown over the back of the armchair. His eyes veer back to the vanity, suddenly, drawn by a small velvet box.

Some part of Hanzo knows he shouldn’t, already regrets being this intrusive, but there’s something in the way it’s half tucked behind a stack of papers, like it was recently considered and then put hastily aside to be forgotten.

The ring is surprisingly plain, for someone who owns a BAMF belt, just a thin platinum band, but still elegant - sleek and gorgeous.

Hanzo’s hands draw back as if burned, snapping the lid shut and placing the ring box carefully where he’d found it. He backs to the other side of the trailer, by the kitchenette, where it would be least likely for McCree to see that he’d noticed it. His head spins with a fresh wave of emotion he’d tamped down before even signing on to this project - disappointment, embarrassment, resignation - but McCree - McCree deserves to be with someone who can actually make him happy for the rest of his life.

Hanzo’s glad he’s already found someone who can do that. He _is_.

“Hanzo? ‘S that you?”

“McCree!” Hanzo says, aiming for casual but not quite getting there. “Production sent me to get you.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” McCree says. He shrugs out of his coat and bag. “The dogs held me up this morning, and then there was trouble on the 5.”

They’d talked about getting dogs, once. Hanzo shakes the thought out of his head, and presses: “Amari’s thinking about adding more scenes with us.”

“‘S that so?”

“She and Mei like our chemistry,” he says, and before he can think better of it, adds, “we should - decide if we can handle that.”

McCree doesn’t say anything for a long time. Perhaps the foremost rule, in this new relationship they’ve figured out for themselves, was not to mention their last one. Finally - “Sure we can. For our careers, right?” He opens the door and gestures after Hanzo, who nods and steps out, not trusting himself to say anything. “Thought so," he says, voice flat. "That’s what it always came down to, wasn’t it.”

* * *

When asked, Genji will say (actually, he’ll shout, possibly with PowerPoint slides) that Hanzo is a terribly dramatic person. Hanzo may even agree with that - provided that Genji admits that he’s just as bad - but he doesn’t think he’s being overtly dramatic when he says that the worst week of his life happens when he’s 28.

(Genji will indignantly point out another week, a mess of ruined reputations and an ever-hungry news cycle closing in from all directions. Hanzo will amend that that was more of a worst year of their lives, but that’s beside the point.)

It’s a particularly draining week of a particularly draining month, one where Hanzo and Jesse are hardly able to see each other between projects, and can only manage petty, exhausted fights and increasingly silent, clipped reconciliations when they do.

Hanzo comes home early for once, that Thursday, and is starting to lay out the ingredients for dinner when Jesse steps into the kitchen followed by a rush of warm air, his hands in his pockets and an apprehensive look on his face.

“Darlin’,” he says roughly, placing a gentle, if slightly shaky hand on Hanzo’s waist, “I think we need to talk.”

Even as Hanzo’s heart plummets, he turns and takes Jesse’s hands with both of his, smiling at what could very well be the end of his world. “Of course.”

Jesse sits him down on the couch and pulls up a footrest to sit in front of him, all the while keeping one hand in his pocket. “I know it’s been real hard for us, lately. To have to keep us a secret, to not be together physically all that much. And I really want to say that it’s all just ‘cause of what we do, but - with everything that’s happened between us - I’m _glad_ , don’t get me wrong, but I’m nearly surprised we’ve gotten this far.”

There is a sense of gravity, of finality, to every word he says. He’s building up to something, gathering stormclouds, and Hanzo can’t bear for it to rain. He puts a hand on Jesse’s knee, rubbing it soothingly with his thumb, and Jesse goes quiet.

“I get it.” He doesn’t want Jesse to have to say the words. He doesn’t want to hear Jesse say them. _Selfish, selfish._ “I think - I think you should go.”

Jesse just looks at him for what could be a lifetime, eyes wide and blank at first before going through a full repertoire of emotion and settling on pained understanding. He dips his head, lifting Hanzo’s hand and kissing his palm -

And goes.

* * *

By some merciful, unspoken agreement, Hanzo and Jesse schedule their days so that they’re never in the apartment at the same time. Hanzo comes home each night to a colder space, to something else cleared away, the closet hollowed of serapes and linen shirts, the photos and keepsakes on the windowsills and mantel losing their counterparts. The key on the kitchen table at the end of the week is more like a period to a sentence neither of them could stay long enough, try hard enough to finish.

They see each other sometimes, after that. Their city really isn’t as big as it seems. They don’t talk, they don’t wave. It never quite stops hurting too much.

 

Hana Song, frightfully competent, fresh out of college with a chip on her shoulder and a confident energy too bright to contain, meets Hanzo in a coffeeshop with a thick file of her agency’s packages. She tells him, straightening her crisp blue blazer and bold pink blouse, that she’s just an intern, she’s very sorry they couldn’t send an agent today, but she can talk him through the contracts if he’d like.

Hanzo knows that’s not all it is, though. He sees the hunger behind her expression, the steadfast belief in finding a way to do something, to be something important. He sees himself, setting foot in Hollywood for the first time, unsure of his bearings, only knowing that he wants to - _needs_ to go far.

He hires her on the spot.

 

The first time Hanzo calls Genji since - _then_ , it rings until it goes to voicemail. He isn’t sure if it’s desperation, or the strange courage of the sleep-deprived, or simply the knowledge of having waited too long, but he dials again without hesitation, and his brother picks up on the second ring.

“Anija? I thought you butt-dialed me?!”

Hanzo’s laugh rings through the empty apartment.

* * *

 “Thank you,” Hanzo says carefully, and is rewarded with a breathtaking smile in return. The stranger is no less beautiful than at first glance - kind, keen brown eyes, rakishly handsome features and carefully cultivated scruff set in warm brown skin, broad shoulders, a tailored suit that hints at a well-toned body.

“Hey,” the stranger adds, considering, “I haven’t seen you around much, have I?”

“This sort of event isn’t really my thing,” Hanzo says, trying not to seem too self-conscious.

“No worries,” the stranger says. “The name’s Jesse McCree.”

Hanzo starts - Jesse McCree. Of course he knows who he is: even if Hanzo hadn’t already admired his acting, his face has been on every billboard for the past month - and, indeed, for just about any given summer blockbuster for the past few years.

“Hanzo Shimada,” he says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, darlin’,” McCree says, and Hanzo’s face reddens like it hasn’t since he was a teenager.

They put the table back together, keeping up a lively stream of conversation as they do, and soon find themselves in an alcove, further away from the festivities, leaning closer and closer to each other as they talk.

“Speakin’ of Bastion,” Jesse is saying, “didn’t you work with them not too long ago? In their space movie?”

“I did,” Hanzo says, with just a dash of bitterness. “I learned a lot, but I just wish I could’ve spent more time with it.”

“True, it’s a real shame you were killed off so early on,” Jesse sighs. “If you ain’t white, you just can’t catch a break. Trust me, I’ve been through plenty of that myself.”

Hanzo blinks, surprised. “I didn’t think you'd have to deal with that.”

Jesse shrugs, eyes warm. “You’d be surprised.”

“I have all night,” Hanzo says, and feels a rush of something that could be adrenaline or affection - he’s never been this certain about a near-stranger, or so terrifyingly willing to open up.

“Say, you wanna get out of here?”

* * *

In retrospect, it takes much too long to dawn on Hanzo that production is almost over - that after the wrap, the press tour, maybe a few months of promotion, he won’t have a reason to see McCree again for the indefinite future. That what he’s been living is a carefully assembled dream world, maybe, or a consolation prize he’ll have to deconstruct before it comes crashing down instead.

He’s left with too little time to start going back to the way things were, distancing himself apologetically from McCree while putting his all into their work, hoping it’ll make everything easier when it’s over. McCree, for his part, takes a while to catch on. When he does, though, he’s perfectly compliant with their new terms, letting Hanzo have his space.

The premiere, by some apt stroke of fate, is held at the Gibraltar. Hanzo’s been to many functions here since the first, but this one feels more like an ending than any other.

As they move into the reception, he’s pulled into a social circle of his own, as if to say how far he’s come. He’s content to stand back to let Lena and Lúcio do the talking, to enjoy Satya’s hard-earned smile and Reyes and Reinhardt’s easy camaraderie, and to avoid meeting McCree’s uncertain glances, when Mei arrives, and Hanzo looks up - and up, and _up_ \- at the pink-haired woman she has in tow.

“I finally found you guys!” their DP says, bright as ever. “This is my wife Aleksandra!”

“Call me Zarya,” she says, crushing Hanzo’s grip in a terrifyingly firm handshake. “Mei has told me a lot about you all.”

Hanzo looks wonderingly at the easy affection between the two, notices the rings on their clasped fingers (Mei is trying to keep Zarya from challenging Reinhardt to a contest of physical prowess, to everyone’s collective glee and concern), and remembers what he’s been meaning to do.

“McCree,” he says, pulling away from the commotion and tapping the man on the shoulder when he has the chance. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Sure thing,” McCree says, turning to face him, open and bemused, as they step aside. In his tux and cowboy hat, he looks startlingly similar to when they’d first met, with only the lines on his face and length of his hair to show the difference.

“They look happy,” Hanzo says, gesturing back with a tilt of his head. “How about you? Where’s your date?”

“What - what date?” McCree asks, voice rough. His eyes widen, face flushing like he’s been caught red-handed, and Hanzo hopes to god that he can stay light, teasing, can give them his blessing and let go.

“There has to be someone,” Hanzo says.

“Hanzo, I don’t - ”

“I saw the ring box in your trailer,” Hanzo blurts, and because he’s put himself on this path, adds, “I’m sorry for intruding on that, I just wanted to - to say congratulations.” McCree’s staring back at him blankly, and Hanzo wants him to understand - _needs_ him to understand, for this to finally be over. “I hope you can be happy together for a long time.”

* * *

In one moment, Hanzo is walking down a quiet, dimly-lit sidewalk, thinking about calling an Uber after a day of screen tests for Winston’s pilot - and in the next, he’s pulled by his arm into the passenger seat of a classic car, tumbling in gracelessly.

“What’s a gorgeous fella like you doin’ all alone?”

“Jesse,” Hanzo laughs, still breathless. “I thought you were still in Pasadena.”

“Talks ended early,” Jesse shrugs. “‘Sides, since when did I need a reason to see ya?”

Jesse reels him in one-handed for a soft kiss. When they part, there’s a hoodie and baseball cap in Hanzo’s arms. At Hanzo’s questioning look, he grins, and in the evening light, it steals Hanzo’s breath away all over again. “Thought we could go for a date on the town.”

“Who even says that anymore?” Hanzo asks.

“You love it,” Jesse says easily.

“I love _you_ ,” Hanzo corrects, looking fondly at Jesse’s eager face. “That’s why I’m okay with it.”

Their first stop is at a somewhat shady ice cream shop, feeding each other samples of the most suspicious-looking flavors before settling on their usual favorites. At Hanzo’s behest, they go to a thrift store next, where they find a bag of tiny plastic hands Hanzo promptly puts on all his fingers, to Jesse’s utter delight. They wind up at a park after sundown, balancing on the concrete benches and pushing each other off in turns like kids.

“I don’t get it,” Jesse says suddenly, when they finally stop, clutching at each other and laughing. “The rental car, the window shopping, the weird dollar store shit, being so open - I wanted to surprise you, for you to have a good time, but - ”

“You thought I wouldn’t have been this okay with it?” Hanzo asks. He reaches up and tweaks Jesse’s hat with a smile, pulling him down by his shirt to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Being with you makes me careless, and I love it.”

“You love _me_ ,” Jesse corrects, awestruck.

“That too,” Hanzo amends. “Especially that.”

* * *

“Han,” McCree exhales, finally, breaking his gaze to look at the floor with a nervous laugh.

“What is it?” Hanzo asks, growing more confused by the second.

“Come with me, will ya,” McCree says, gently taking Hanzo’s arm and leading him to an empty side hallway. He lets go when they’re out of sight from the reception, moving to lean against the wall across from Hanzo. If he angles himself just _so_ , Hanzo thinks he can spot the alcove where they’d struck up their first conversation.

“Jess - McCree, what - ”

“This ain’t how I’d planned for us to go,” he says in a rush. “It sounds silly, sayin’ it out loud now, but I got this - this mental scenario when we became friends these past few months. Where we’d finally, _really_ talk about us, and we’d get back together, and I’d propose again, if you wanted it.”

“Again?”

“Hanzo,” Jesse breathes, half-laughing and terrified, “the ring was for _you_.”

“What,” Hanzo says again, dumbstruck.

“I was gonna propose to you,” Jesse says, “when I said we needed to talk. I was gonna say that - that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, and that havin’ something permanent like that, it would make it easier for us to weather the storms.”

The last part sounds charmingly rehearsed and then never forgotten, and something inside Hanzo breaks. “I thought you were trying to break up,” he says. “I was trying to make it easier for us - faster.”

“I figured you wanted to break up all along, that we had - completely different ideas ‘bout what we wanted,” Jesse says, “but above all I wanted you to know I respected your wishes.”

“I would never,” Hanzo says quietly.

“I thought you’d know - ” Jesse cuts himself off, two derailed thoughts colliding into one another, and his eyes widen. “You didn’t want to break up?”

“I never would,” Hanzo says, stricken. He tries to continue, but the words are trapped in the back of his throat, fighting against an onslaught of emotion that threatens to spill over. He leans back for a moment and just breathes, looking away until he feels clear-headed enough to finish. And Jesse - Jesse waits for him. “I’m so sorry I didn’t stay and listen to you then - we would’ve avoided all of this, if it hadn’t been for that.”

Jesse shushes him, resting both hands on his shoulders. “We both made mistakes,” he murmurs. “We were both too stubborn, and let the situation get the best of us - but we’re here now, aren’t we?” One of his hands slides up to cup Hanzo’s face, and he leans into the touch, closing his eyes and savoring the warmth. “I was so confused when you’d asked me about a date jus’ now - I don’t think there could ever be anyone else.”

Hanzo rises onto his toes and folds his arms around Jesse’s neck, pulling him down into a tight hug. Achingly familiar arms draw him closer in return, thumbs tracing reassuring, grounding circles into his back. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, kissing the side of Jesse’s face again and again, earnest and desperate and a little heartbroken. “Me too. I’m sorry.”

“Say,” Jesse says, looking at Hanzo in a way that makes him want to brush the dampness from the corners of his eyes and chase the grin off his mouth, preferably with his lips. “You wanna get out of here?”

* * *

A few months after that, Hanzo finds that the ring fits perfectly.

* * *

 Jesse’s favorite farmer’s market is nearly forty minutes away from home, but the produce is so fresh, and it’s a tradition Hanzo’s so sorely missed, that he makes the drive almost the moment Jesse brings it up. They spend the better part of a Wednesday morning wandering along the stalls, keeping a low profile with their sunglasses and cotton masks, arms just barely brushing as they browse.

On the hood of their car, after, feeding each other cold blueberries that burst on their tongues, Hanzo finally says, “Jesse - about coming out.”

Jesse looks up at him, startled, and reaches out to thumb purple juice from the corner of Hanzo’s mouth. “It’s up to you, darlin’,” he says. “You know _I’ve_ always been willin’. It’s just a matter of when you’re ready, but we’ve got all the time in the world.”

Now that it’s an alarmingly real prospect, Hanzo realizes that things wouldn’t be as different for the two of them as he’d previously thought. Sure, Jesse’s been out as bi and proud for most of his career, but he hasn’t had a publicized romance before, either. They’d be under the same scrutiny - but after all, it would be for the same relationship. At that, he smiles, and reaches for another berry.

 

Hanzo’s reunited with the _Overwatch_ cast sooner than expected, when he and Jesse get invited to a panel at a summer convention. The movie had become something of a dark horse when it finally got its wide release, rising in popularity and success unprecedented to everyone but the cast and crew, and their auditorium is packed to full capacity.

Near the end of the Q&A session, a girl in a hood approaches the mic. “My question is for Jesse,” she says, and beside Hanzo, Jesse straightens with a warm smile. “A lot of people have commented on your character’s chemistry with Hanzo's.” The audience breaks into cheers. Onstage, Lúcio joins in, and Hanzo levels an unimpressed look at him. “Any comment on that?”

Jesse glances briefly at Hanzo and leans into his mic. “Well, uh, we’ve never really worked together before,” he says, gesturing ineffectually with his hand, “so I wasn’t sure how that’d turn out… but...”

Before he can continue, Hanzo reaches out, grabs Jesse’s flailing hand, and reels him in for a kiss. He feels Jesse inhale sharply at first, but as he presses back, it turns soft and genuine and over much too soon. When they separate, Hanzo turns Jesse’s mic toward himself and says, breathless, “What Jesse _means_ to say is that he’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

The crowd goes deafening. When Hanzo finally peels his eyes away from the stage lights, still breathing hard and in just as much shock as everyone else, Jesse’s looking back at him with wonder in his eyes.

 

“So this is the infamous Jesse McCree,” Hana says imperiously. She sits across from the two of them at their diner booth that night, postured like a lord, or maybe a mob boss, which would be funny if it weren’t genuinely intimidating.

“Yes ma’am,” Jesse says faintly, evidently feeling the same.

“You’ll know I take my job very seriously,” Hana says, “and if you ever hurt my client again, I will be taking legal - _Genji_!”

She jumps out of her seat and throws herself at Hanzo’s brother, who’s in town for his own show’s panel, holding onto him like a limpet as they laugh in delight. A serene-looking man stands beside him, watching the commotion in calm amusement.

“Anija, you’re making headlines again, I see,” Genji says when Hana detaches herself from him, sliding into Hanzo’s side of the table to give him a hug. “And with all people - _that’s Jesse McCree_!”

Genji and Hana, who seems to have put aside her threats for the time being, crowd around Jesse, laughing raucously together about something only they seem to be on the same wavelength for.

“I’m Zenyatta,” the calm man says casually, extending a hand to Hanzo. “Genji speaks of you often.”

“Hanzo,” he replies, “I’m pleased to finally meet you.” There is a suspicious crashing sound behind him, and he pointedly does not turn around. “Do you think we’ve created a monster?”

“It’s possible,” Zenyatta says. He glances past Hanzo's shoulder, and doesn’t exactly _wince_ , but it comes close. “It’s very possible.”

* * *

Hanzo wakes up warm. The curtains are drawn, keeping the room unlit, still, safe. In this moment, oblivious to all else in the world, nothing could be more right.

He burrows back into Jesse’s arms and sleeps in.

 

They don’t know it yet, but soon there will be a spring wedding. There will be more dogs underfoot, strays and fosters and all in between. There will be a romantic comedy written with them in mind, there will be the press behind them, some of it obtrusive, some of it reproving, but above all, drowning them out, there will be an outpouring of love and support and determination.

There will be the world for their taking, hand in hand with the future in their grasp.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! 
> 
> ceramize.tumblr.com


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